


Collide

by Hyperius (Euregatto)



Category: Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Force Bond (Star Wars), Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Inappropriate Use of the Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 13:44:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13525497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euregatto/pseuds/Hyperius
Summary: “It doesn’t matter what youthink, Rey.” The Force was suddenly burning between them, edged by his exasperation—not with her, but with everything else. It would scare her if she hadn’t known him any better. “Luke Skywalker is a monster, and he would do well to keep his distance if he favors self-preservation.”---A Reylo drabble.





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**Author's Note:**

> Tried a different writing style, just something small and quick, and decided to post.  
> Enjoy!

  

  

When the lightsaber split in two Kylo Ren felt the cosmos shift beneath his feet. The moment between explosion and impact was a prolonged silence; his mind was racing with thoughts and hard, pulsating memories of Rey. To admit they have a history is commitment. To acknowledge it meant anything is treasonous. Snoke knew—later claimed, just before he was severed at the waist, that this was his doing, the Force bridging his apprentice’s mind with that prodigal girl from Jakku—that Kylo had spent the last week dodging his master’s peeved glances because he was busy sharing his life with the enemy.

(Sharing dreams of islands, a joke about milk, childhood memories, skin, tongues)

And Kylo Ren tucked it all away, as if Snoke was not a prevalent, malevolent force that could seep into minds like a discreet poison. As if he didn’t already know. As if he would never find out.

 

   

  

  

There was a moment, right before they collided and fell apart. Before they slaughtered the Praetorian Elite and Snoke and tore the throne room in two, before he dropped to the cold, unforgiving floor and lost her for good.

If she was worried about Luke Skywalker discovering them, she never voiced her concerns. Kylo figured that much, while she was acquainting her hands with his chest—and when her head rolled into a pillow, he concluded she was much too comfortable to be anywhere but the privacy of the Falcon. He would always motion to complain about how that piece of junk shouldn’t logically be able to lift into the sky, but she peeled away her shirt and all his previous concerns jettisoned out the window.

   

   

   

   

Afterwards, they talked. She laid in his arms for a while, distracted by his hair and his scars and his birthmarks, while he rambled about whatever was on his mind. It didn’t matter what he said. It wasn’t like he was trying to woo her, not when they seemed to fall naturally together, akin to puzzle pieces. There was no difference to them now, even though she was childishly playing with his hair and they made conversation for the sake of distracting from the unspoken problem between them.

“Has he said anything to you since your connection with the dark? Has he tried to hurt you?”

She traced the length of his scar with her forefinger. A few weeks ago, they were enemies in a forest, and blood was seeping dangerously into his clothes and into the pristine snow beneath him. Now he had just finished rutting her raw, and she was intrigued, not frightened, by her handiwork. “Don’t say it like that, Ben, like I’m a child who needs to be coddled. I’m used to fighting for my life.”

He grunted. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Of course not.” And then curiously, “Are you afraid of him, then, your uncle?”

“You and I are human; it’s a natural adaption, fight or flight—to preserve ourselves or those we care about. I do not fear him so much as I wish to see you unharmed.”

She huffed into his chest and he felt her nails gliding down the divot of his back. Each notch of his spine. Studying him like a forgotten map. “I fear loneliness,” she said dismally, her voice rattling his ribcage. “Abandonment. Isolation. You?”

“The color green.”

She laughed. “Forest green or exotic fruit green?”

“Lightsaber green.” There was an honesty in his voice that was hard-edged and bitter. She kissed the puncture scar she had graciously given him in his left shoulder.

“The loathsome Kylo Ren _must_ fear more than one color.” Whatever she meant by that could be attributed to the unspoken problem. She adjusted herself against him, stretching her stiff legs. “Regardless. I think I can handle myself just fine.”

“It doesn’t matter what you _think_ , Rey.” The Force was suddenly burning between them, edged by his exasperation—not with her, but with everything else. It would scare her if she hadn’t known him any better. “Luke Skywalker is a monster, and he would do well to keep his distance if he favors self-preservation.”

She went quiet. Eventually he remembered it was safe to breathe and pulled her against him. And then they kissed. And then she was gone.

   

  

  

   

Kylo Ren should have been surprised by her blatant rejection, but he wasn’t. Rather, he was impressed by the power she had accumulated in such a small interval of time, and of course, he was also unfazed by violently starting awake to see Hux standing over him with a lethally drawn gun. That was something Kylo would always anticipate. Dark, Light, Gray, indifferent—everyone would always want his head, and it was difficult to say it won’t always be his fault.

   

  

   

  

There was another moment, in the aftermath of Crait, when he was alone, where he perched on the throne he had claimed in an interim of hazy decisions, and she appeared to him after weeks of silence. He was certain he had lost her the way everyone else departed from his life. Luke Skywalker had transcended. Han Solo was at the bottom of a chasm. Snoke was in halves. Kylo Ren’s mind and heart and spirit were in pieces. And Leia Organa—the last thread of sanity keeping Ben Solo from slipping head-first into the darkness—peacefully passed in her sleep last night.

“Please don’t,” he told her without looking up. Don’t touch me, don’t look at me. I can’t do this right now. Please, _please_ —

She stubbornly wedged herself into his lap. Her hands sunk into his hair and guided his head against her shoulder. She was trembling. No doubt she would feel the wetness beginning to soak the thin material of her shirt.

“Losing you,” he said to answer her question, arms knotting around her waist.

She drew his head back to look at him, empathy and longing and their lives, fatally entwined, a reckless balance. “Never,” she whispered. And then she kissed him. And then she was gone.

  

  


End file.
